Dead man's bluff
by owlishincandesce
Summary: Post - Reichenbach wingfic. Sherlock has wings and has had wings through all of his cases, adventures and escapades. Not even Mycroft knows. Picks up in and after the fall, so spoilers. My first fanfic ever posted.
1. In which Moriarty is saved and suicidal

" Because I've got you."

"Well good luck with that."  
Sherlock simply smiled when Moriarty put the gun in his mouth and pulled the trigger. The resounding click of an empty cartridge echoed over the rooftop and Sherlock waved the ammo at him teasingly.

"And it seems I owe you some more bullets."

Moriarty scowled at the bullets in Sherlock's hand, but he soon smirked again.

"You know what Sherlock? It's a far more nasty way to go, far more painful, but as long as I disgrace your name, it doesn't matter to me. I can see the headlines now, Fake detective pushes defenceless actor off of hospital roof then commits suicide. Bye Sherlock!"

"No!"

Moriarty ran to the edge of the roof, then with a jaunty wave to Sherlock, hopped off of the edge. Sherlock took his coat off, and just as Moriarty fell, Sherlock then did something that was unknown to man before or since. He jumped after him, caught him under the shoulders, then spread his wings and soared over the London smog, cradling the consulting criminal in his arms.

Moriarty squirmed in Sherlock's arms and attempted to strain his neck to look up at the red faced figure above.

"We're flying."

"Brilliant deduction Moriarty."

Moriarty spluttered in his arms, attempting to get free. He tried to say something but was being held around the chest too tightly to speak.

"I wouldn't do that if I were you. You wouldn't want me to drop you. It would be far more painful from this height and you're not exactly featherweight. I can barely support myself, never mind you. Oh, but how could I forget? You want to kill yourself anyway."

"What ARE you?" Moriarty refused to give up writhing in Sherlock's arms, as if disgusted by who, or what, was holding him up.

"It was an experiment that went wrong. That's all you need to know."

Moriarty craned his neck to look at the giant raven wings, speckled with white and grey, that were struggling to keep them both in the air. The consulting criminal had been in awe of the impossible wings that stretched from where no wings should be as soon as he realised he hadn't hit the ground, but Sherlock was still suspicious.

With good reason.

"My men didn't see you fall Sherlock, and no matter how much you wouldn't like to think it, your friends are still going to die, wings or no wings. You drop me and kill yourself to let your friends live, or you don't commit suicide and let your friends die. Tick tock goes the clock Sherly, you'll have to make your choice."

Then, smiling his crooked smile, with a malignant glint in his eyes, he bit Sherlock's hand, so hard it drew blood. Sherlock yelped and reflexively jerked his away, relaxing his grip. Moriarty kicked Sherlock in the shin, then tumbled out of his grasp.

"Bye bye Sherly!"

Sherlock swooped down, but he couldn't match the speed at which Moriarty was falling, not when Moriarty had a head start. Moriarty smashed into the abandoned car lot with a sickening crunch, leaving a huge pool of blood around him, making him look like he had a scarlet cape upon his mangled back and an infernal crown upon his broken mind.

He was still smirking at Sherlock, even in death. His eyes hadn't glazed over, like most people. They still held their malignant gleam, as they reflected the bright sunlight, as if he were still alive.

His friends were going to die. Short of revealing himself to all, he could do nothing.

Sherlock put his head in his bloodied hands, and cried.

_AN - Hello! This is my first fanfiction posted on . I'm generally just here for the lurking, but this is one of my pet projects which I haven't touched for a while, so I thought I'd blow the metaphorical dust off of it and post it. The next chapter will be up as soon as I have figured out how to work FF properly. It's wingfic because I'm a sucker for wingfic_.


	2. In which Sherlock has a fall

Sherlock glided high above the skyscrapers, racing to get back to the hospital roof, texting all the while. He swooped down and landed silently on the concrete, as if he had never been gone. He peered over the edge, watching the people milling around below. Rescuing his coat from where it lay, forlorn on the ground, he slid it on, over his wings.

He phoned John.

"That's what people do isn't it? Leave a note."

"Goodbye John."

He threw the phone to his right, it smashed on the steel grey roof. 'I don't need it after this anyway.', but Sherlock couldn't help feeling a pang of regret to the shattered plastic, yet he knew that if his plan was to work, he must sever all links to his past life. He tucked his wings tight into the curve of his back, under the coat. 'This is my life now. The life of a dead man.'.

And he fell.

Sherlock woke in the mortuary, aching. It would take an incredible amount of effort, but he could splint his wing bones later. Just before he had hit the ground, he had twisted himself around to land on his back. The masses of bone and feathers would cushion his fall, albeit with a price.

Molly wasn't a problem, she had walked in once with his jacket and coat off, without one of his unslitted shirts on to hide his wings. (He had a shirt on, but it was one that was slitted at the back.) She knew, and only Mrs Hudson knew as well, so it was fairly easy to keep the secret, even though he did get funny looks from Lestrade and Donovan when he hadn't folded his wings together properly under his coat. Anderson was far too ignorant to notice, and John far too loyal and polite to say anything. Sherlock sighed and laboriously hauled himself from the table, then inspected the damage to his wings whilst he waited for Molly.

The sound of a something shattering by the door soon announced her presence.

"Sherlock?"

But the voice that spoke was definitely not hers.

AN - Hehe, cliffhangers. Sorry to the non-existent viewers reading this fic, but I would like to say that I can only continue this when the inspiration strikes, so updates will be few and far between. Criticism is welcome.


	3. In which Lestrade gets a shock

Chapter 3

Lestrade.

_Lestrade._

How could he forget the DI? Sherlock held the older man's gaze, whilst coming to several conclusions. The DI had clearly not slept. The DI was here to see his body, therefore John would not be too far behind him. The DI would probably think he was hallucinating, due to Sherlock's large and rather blatantly obvious wings, and the fact that Sherlock was assumed - no - declared officially dead. He would have a 'funeral' later this month. Sherlock's mouth quirked upwards fractionally, wondering if it was acceptable to attend one's own funeral if he took necessary measures to disguise himself.

Ah, sentiment.

However, his thoughts soon snapped back to Lestrade, when the wide-eyed man whispered a hoarse and bewildered "Sherlock?" again.

"Yes?" snapped Sherlock, irritated, more at his own ignorance than anything.

"Oh, God, it really is you."

"Well, who else would I be?"

"Your evil ghost come back to haunt me?"

The younger man snorted at the other's theatrics. "Even if I were a ghost, there are better people to be 'haunting' than you."

Sherlock, after a pause, noticed Lestrade staring at his wings.

"They are real, you know."

Lestrade turned away, but Sherlock could sense the growing anger and confusion of the man.

"Do you have any idea what John has been through already?" Lestrade kept his voice quiet, but the consulting detective could hear it shaking with suppressed rage and fear.

Sherlock remained silent. Not the best thing to do.

"WELL?" Lestrade whipped around and stared hard at Sherlock. "He needed you, and you left him. You 'died'. But now here you are, in the damned mortuary, very much not 'dead', and with dirty great black wings! It's, it's ... impossible, yet your right in front of me! You have a lot of explaining to do. Holmes."

Use of his surname. Very not good. Sherlock took a deep breath, then opened his mouth, preparing to explain, but the DI cut him off.

"No. You know what Sherlock? You can come with me right now, and apologize to John. Wings or no wings."

"I can't."

"Give me one good reason why."

Sherlock slid off of the table, then coolly walked over to Lestrade, fake blood and everything. He towered over the older man, then extended his wings as far as they would go, so the inspector could see the full extent of the damage, wincing as he did so.

"I did it to protect him."

Taking an unconscious step back, clearly intimidated, Lestrade took in another shaky breath at the sight of the mangled mess of feathers and bone protruding from the youngers back.

He knew that Sherlock wouldn't do this damage to himself on purpose, so was what he saying true?


	4. In which Sherlock avoids an argument

Lestrade was sitting down, shakily sipping a coffee whilst Sherlock was perched on top of the chair opposite him, unable to sit properly due to the discomfort and pain of leaning on his wings.

"So, I must, ah, remove each remaining member of Moriarty's network, so that the rest of us, will be safe from them."

"Mmm... so when did you get, y'know -"

"My wings?"

"Yes."

"That story is best left unsaid."

Lestrade said nothing, though his brow furrowed slightly.

An awkward silence descended on the room.

Lestrade sipped his coffee.

Sherlock's wings twitched.

"So... who else knows?"

"Mrs Hudson and Molly."

"Mycroft?"

"Mycroft may be seemingly omniscient, but it is one of the few secrets I have managed to withhold from him."

"How did y-"

"Sherlock! You have to go, now! John's here!"

Molly burst into the room, almost stepping on the fragments of pottery that had smashed on the floor.

Sherlock blinked once, then jumped off of his chair/perch then walked smoothly out of the door, heading for the rooftop. Molly started to walk after him, then noticed Lestrade sitting on one of the autopsy tables. She gave him a helpless look.

"Don't tell John will you?"

Lestrade opened his mouth to reply, when a knocking on the door stopped him in his tracks.

_AN: MOAR cliffhangers! I'm sorry it's so short! I don't think there's going to be another update for a few days. Sorry again, I'll try to keep writing though. If I'm honest, I need a bit of a break, because you have been getting updates every 1-2 days, so I have been practically writing non-stop. I think Sherlock sounds too much like Mycroft... I need to rewatch the series again. Reviews please!_


	5. In which Molly gets flustered

Chapter 5

AN: I'm sorry for the long wait! School kind of got in the way and I have stuff to do I've been neglecting. I'll try to get one chapter per week up at least now. Oh, and do you want me to write Sherlock's adventures in hunting down Moriarty's criminal web, or do you want me to skip to him finding Sebastian Moran and then doing the others like flashbacks?

Sherlock walked silently up the stairs, pondering what was going to happen now. Everything had been going to plan until Lestrade came in. His secret was weaker, now he had accidentally shared it to three people. Mycroft would probably find out next, now that would take a lot of explaining. But first he needed to splint his wings. Although the pain had dwindled into a dull throbbing when he didn't move, after his little stretch with Lestrade, whenever he so much as twitched his wing muscles or feathers, a bolt of blinding pain shot up his spine, nearly incapacitating him. He groaned quietly at his pain when his half open wings scraped against the wall. They were clumsy things, he could fly, barely, but why would he want cumbersome wings when he could fly a plane or a glider? They were far too large, and he could never could quite conceal them under his shirt. They weren't even supposed to be there at all. Idiotic genetic scientists. Scraping the wall again, he cried out softly, without quite meaning to.

"Sherlock? Do you need some help?" Poor naive little Molly.

"No." He snapped, maybe a little too sharply.

"S-sorry... it's just, you looked in pain..."

"I'm fine." A little more soft, he appreciated the concern, but he couldn't afford to have sentiment in his life, especially not now.

Molly was staring at him.

"What?"

"N-nothing."

Sherlock made a small noise in annoyance, then continued to haul himself up the stairs, determined not to acknowledge his pain.

-_-ilovepagebreaks-_-

After what seemed to Sherlock an age, he stumbled over the top step and into his lab. Exhausted by what would have normally taken him a minute, he collapsed into one of the chairs by the table his microscope was on.

"Sherlock?"

He had quite forgotten about Molly. She stood idly by the door, looking if she wanted nothing more than to help him, but unsure of what to do.

"First Aid kit." Sherlock gestured vaguely at where it sat, before sagging in his chair. A few seconds later, she appeared by his side, brandishing bandages and tape, the rest of the box behind her. Although a few scabs had formed, he was still bleeding and it was weakening him, giving his gaunt face an unnatural pale and slightly yellowed tinge.

Molly hovered by his shoulder, unsure of where to start.

"Try to bind the wounds between the feathers."

Molly slowly began to wrap the bandages around the wing, threading it in between the gummed-up feathers and pushing the fractured bones into place and splinting them. When she got to the end of the wing, where it attached to his back, her fingers lingered for perhaps a second too long on his skin, it didn't escape Sherlock's notice, but he passed it off as nerves.

"Finished."

"Other wing. Please."

Molly looked surprised at the 'Please' but smiled slightly as she worked on his other appendage.

A chair creaked downstairs, and footsteps sounded on the stairs.

"Hide!"

AN: Next chapter is going to be a Lestrade or John POV. Review please!


	6. In which John is confused

Chapter 6

Lestrade was panicking. Only on the inside. Even John was adept at reading emotions, so he kept his face neutral, even if he could hear the barely imperceptible sounds of Sherlock and Molly creaking up the stairs. He could also see that John was close to breaking down on the floor.

" John. "

" 'Lo. "

Lestrade almost flinched when he heard a half concealed cry from the staircase. John didn't seem to notice. He still had his coffee in his hands. It was cold.

" You don't believe what the 'reporter' said? "

He said 'reporter' but Lestrade could also hear the barely contained fury and sadness that spoke 'LIAR' in his tone. It might as well have been underlined twice in fluorescent red pen with double the exclamation marks.

Lestrade hesitated, wondering if he should tell John the truth.

"No."

John visibly sagged with relief.

Another cry sounded from the stairs, louder, and suspiciously like Sherlock's baritone, with Molly's titterings following it.

"Who was that?"

John was looking at him. He shifted slightly. John stood from his slumped position in the doorway, and frowning at the fragmented pottery on the floor, walked to the stairs.

Lestrade reached out to stop him. "No! Wait!"

John looked over his shoulder, puzzled.

Lestrade's outstretched hand curled back into a fist. "Ah, I mean, um...

John gave him a look.

"Uhmm... We're... still clearing Sherlock's stuff from the lab... it's restricted 'cause of all of his more... toxic experiments."

John looked confused.

"I just wanted to go to the loo."

Lestrade was silent as he watched John limp up the stairs, wishing he could warn Sherlock and Molly without calling out.

-_-ilovepagebreaks-_-

Sherlock was curled up uncomfortably inside a large cabinet that usually stored his equipment, but since he was 'dead' , he had no need for it anymore, therefore, it was packed into boxes and sold. The cabinet had plenty of room for a normal man, but Sherlock's wings were crumpled beneath himself, causing him to shift uncomfortably and noisily in the cupboard.

The steps were coming nearer.

-_-ilovepagebreaks-_-

John stumbled up the stairs, lost in his thoughts. It was almost 11 o'clock now, and he was incredibly tired after the day's events, but he thought about what Lestrade had said. His face turned to a slight frown, and he changed his course to Sherl-... the lab. The lab. Pushing open the door gently, he saw Molly jump at his quiet entrance.

"Hello J-john."

John couldn't see any boxes, empty or otherwise, nor was any of the equipment put away. If anything, there was more equipment than ever, with stacks of beakers and several Bunsen burners, not to mention the large amounts of dangerous chemicals, balanced precariously in tall towers of little plastic tubs, some with the lids carelessly half-screwed on.

There was a first aid kit out, with the bandages missing. He noticed Molly had small smudges of blood on the top half of her labcoat and sleeves. Her hands were newly washed, and as John looked, there were more splatters of blood on the floor, like blood that had fallen from waist height and walked around on the floor.

'Maybe I'm getting a deducing scale of my own.' John thought grimly.

"What c-can I do for you J-john?"

AN: *insert long-suffering voice here* Sorry about the belated update, I'm moving house and have tons of homework and tests, as well as a missing library book (which I could have sworn I handed in,) that could result in a bill. Another update will come from anywhere in this week to next month.

PS: Sorry about the cliffy, but I like to leave you hanging ;)


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